


Orange

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë watches elves spar.





	Orange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurawolfgirl2000](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aurawolfgirl2000).



> A/N: Fill for aurawolfgirl2000’s “Eönwë/Maglor with 33 [a kiss forcefully]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own the Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Fëanáro nods approvingly, having observed the opening match of his two elder sons, and then he turns to leave. Eönwë asks him, “Are you not going to continue supervising?”

“Supervising?” Fëanáro dryly repeats, idly glancing back. “They are both well trained and do not require their father’s watch any longer. I have seen enough to be pleased.” He doesn’t look particularly pleased, or perhaps that just isn’t the right word—perhaps he might be a little _smug_ , if Eönwë understands the meaning of that. He doesn’t understand this ‘training.’ He watches Fëanáro leave, then returns his gaze to the dirt field that’s been cleaned away, lined in posts and various equipment. The match continues.

Nelyafinwë thrusts forward, and Kanafinwë lurches back just in time to save his chest from being sliced open on his brother’s blade. Eönwë barely has time to feel worry for Kanafinwë, for a second later, he’s bringing his sword down on his brother, and Nelyafinwë has to drop to the earth and roll away to avoid it. He’s on his feet again a moment later, parrying Kanafinwë’s next blow and raining down another. They come at one another with startling speed and alacrity. Both are fully focused on their match, eyes only on one another. They both wield their blades with too much strength, the force of every muscle behind every thrust. If those blades ever meet flesh, blood will fill the training yard.

Eönwë has seen little blood in his long life. None of it was spilled intentionally, but he’s learned that elves are, to an extent, frail creatures, confined to physical bodies at the whims of nature’s laws. This new trend of _swords_ disturbs him, especially to see the weapons turned on one another, turned on kin. Nelyafinwë manages to slice away a few black strands of Kanafinwë’s silken hair, and if Eönwë breathed, he might stop. Kanafinwë pays the fallen shards no notice. He kicks his brother back and roars as he charges forward. Nelyafinwë deflects the blow and spins on his heel, swirling to slam into Kanafinwë’s back. His free arm wraps around Kanafinwë’s middle, catching Kanafinwë’s wrist, and his sword stops at Kanafinwë’s throat. Kanafinwë’s chin is forced to tilt upwards, his teeth grit together.

Eönwë tenses, ready to intervene at any moment. He doesn’t understand what these elves are playing at, but he does understand that a single press of a knife in the wrong place could dull the light from Kanafinwë’s eyes. Nelyafinwë coos, “Do you surrender, Brother?”

Kanafinwë closes his eyes. His face twitches— _winces_ —clearly swamped with displeasure. But he goes slack in Nelyafinwë’s grip and begrudgingly admits, “I do.”

“Say it,” Nelyafinwë demands, and when Kanafinwë clicks his tongue, Nelyafinwë chuckles, “Curvo has played that game with me before, where he has not _quite_ said it, and then attacked when my guard was down.” 

Frowning in clear distaste, Kanafinwë promises, “I am not so dishonourable.”

“I will tell him you said so. Now say what I wish.”

With a short, irritated sigh, Kanafinwë annunciates: “I surrender, Nelyo. The match is yours.”

Nelyafinwë steps away. To Eönwë’s relief, his sword falls from Kanafinwë’s throat. A bit further bath, bows from his waist, and as he rises, notes, “That was close, though. You nearly had me.”

“I will have you yet,” Kanafinwë promises, and he sounds sincere, though there’s no malice in his voice. Nelyafinwë nods his head and retreats, heading towards the tent off to the side. They changed in it earlier, donning stronger clothes and retrieving swords, when Eönwë had first arrived to speak with his songbird and had Fëanáro invite him to watch. It wasn’t the soothing song that he came for, but perhaps it was enlightening, if not in all good ways.

Kanafinwë looks after Nelyafinwë, but then his gaze shifts, and he spots Eönwë, letting their eyes connect and donning a languid smile. Eönwë returns it despite all his doubts. The sword falls from Kanafinwë’s hand in a way a harp never would. He would never let his treasured instruments hit the dirt. At least his main passion clearly hasn’t changed. 

He storms suddenly forward with new vigor. He comes to leap one-handedly over the waist-high fence, and then he’s marching right up to Eönwë, and the second they’re close enough, Kanafinwë melts into Eönwë’s body. He presses right into Eönwë’s chest, slots one leg between Eönwë’s feet, arches forward and brings both hands up to cup Eönwë’s cheeks. Then Kanafinwë surges against his mouth, tilting to thrust an eager tongue between his lips, and Eönwë opens more out of surprise than anything. Kanafinwë kisses him forcefully, fierce and _hard_ , so much different than the few, tender touches they’ve shared behind closed doors. Eönwë doesn’t know how to respond. He lets his hands rest on Kanafinwë’s hips and allows Kanafinwë to freely explore his mouth. It isn’t until Kanafinwë bites his bottom lip that Eönwë pulls away.

He lifts a brow and peers into Kanafinwë’s dark eyes, but there is no explanation. They’re different, too—the pupils blown wide, lashes heavy, cheeks flushed beneath them. Eönwë lifts a hand to capture Kanafinwë’s chin, and he tilts Kanafinwë’s face like a new angle will reveal new meaning, but none show anything but _fire_. Then Kanafinwë ducks onto Eönwë’s thumb and sucks it between his lips, crudely licking it. Eönwë breathes, “I do not understand.”

“What?” Kanafinwë asks, trailing the kisses down Eönwë’s hand and ducking to bite along his jaw. Kanafinwë pants in between nipping at Eönwë’s skin, “Tell me, and I will tell you everything...”

Eönwë isn’t sure how to phrase it but tries: “Why are you like this now?” ‘This’ should be obvious enough. Kanafinwë laughs, and that, at least, is as crystalline and pretty as it always is.

“It is the adrenaline,” he murmurs, as though that says it all. “The rush of fighting, of struggling, of competing—it makes one feel fierce, _alive_ —strips them down to their most basic instincts, to the desires of an animal...”

“But you are not an animal,” Eönwë protests. “You are one of the most intelligent and graceful elves that I have ever met...” And he’s met a great deal, none of which have enthralled him the way that his songbird has. Kanafinwë smiles and slides a wet kiss along his face.

He sounds almost normal when he purrs, “Thank you, my love. There are certainly merits to grace, to subtlety, to gently making love...” but then his voice deepens, and he all but growls in Eönwë’s ear, “Yet, I think you will find there is also merit in this—in the celebration of carnal acts, of _taking_ someone wholly.”

Eönwë isn’t so sure. But as with all things _Kanafinwë_ , he’s willing to learn. Kanafinwë must see that compulsion in Eönwë’s eyes, because he asks sweetly, “Might I show you, perhaps? By now, I am certain my brother is done with the tent.”

Eönwë nods his acceptance. Kanafinwë’s grin grows wider, worth it for that alone, and he takes Eönwë’s hand in his, curling thickly around it and squeezing once. Eönwë can already feel how hot his body’s grown. 

Eönwë lets Kanafinwë lead him away. Soon enough, he understands.


End file.
